Breaking up Is Hard to Do
by Brit-bound
Summary: Piers must confront an unsettling encounter with a most important someone from his past. Where is Kate when he needs her?


Note: Divorce may not bear the stigma it once did, but it still packs an emotional wallop for the children whose parents decide to go their separate ways. It is particularly devastating when parents ignore the ramifications of their actions or — in some cases — intensify for their children the guilt and pain associated with being abandoned by the people who should love them the most. The 16th Earl of Charlbury makes it clear, in deceptively off-handed fashion when he takes Kate early-on to visit his ancestral home, that his mother's decision to leave has never ceased to impact his life. This story examines the still-suffering little boy hiding out in an oversized man's body.

Shakespeare and Sally Wainwright created Petrucchio at his most outrageous and Rufus Sewell and Shirley Henderson made his modern-day manifestation a delight. This is the story behind the story. Bring a handkerchief. Tell me if you cried.

**Breaking Up Is Hard to Do**

Disentangling from Kate was seldom simple.

She preferred to sleep with her head lying on his shoulder, her left arm reaching across his naked chest with fingers curved loosely around his neck. Her left knee, bent and resting on top of his thigh, might have represented a too-close-for-comfort attachment for some men.

For Piers, however, the arrangement left absolutely nothing to be desired. It was as though his wife were sending out a message beyond conscious thought: I refuse to let you go.

So it was necessary to wait patiently — an effort of enormous proportions for him — until her deep and even breathing signaled she might not miss him for a while before he could begin to edge from beneath her alluring little body.

Separated at last, he perched on the edge of their bed and bunched the blanket around her gently, lest she miss his warmth. And he stole one sweet kiss from the inside of her wrist before he tucked her hand into the cover-cave he had created for her.

"That was fairly well done, you worthless bugger," he told himself with grim satisfaction.

Gentle gestures had not been a staple in his behavioral repertoire before he met Kate. Life was basically noise and movement on a grand and attention-focusing scale.

But sometimes — now — quietly and sweetly won out.

In a way, he thought, it was a pity Kate was missing it.

He watched her for a moment, the left corner of his mouth dipping down slightly in a rueful smile.

But a Kate separated from him by the wall of her own peaceful dreams was insufficient to banish the day's demons. He would have to find something else to pack them on their way.

He stretched upward on a sigh and stood, moving away from her and toward the bedroom door.

Three stops marked the journey to his ultimate destination.

The first was at the entrance to his sons' room, where he deftly repositioned Michael with a 180-turn so that his little toes were no longer perilously close to the eyes of either of the brothers curled up on his left and right.

He smiled, wondering if the inseparable trio would still be sharing a bed when they had moved past single-digit birthdays. It could represent a problem for Scout camp. Or honeymoons.

But for right now, in the eyes of a once lonely only-child turned father, it was a picture-perfect arrangement.

The second stop was at the liquor cabinet in the dining room, where he selected a bottle of Johnny Walker with sufficient left to do the trick. There was no need for a glass. It would only slow him down and require washing up when morning came.

The third hesitation was at a cupboard in his study, where he set the bottle down long enough to remove the contents and appropriate them as befitted their purpose as quickly as possible.

Then, picking up the bottle, he moved further into his retreat and angled a leather arm chair so that moonlight fell across his lap as he sank into its depths.

His first hasty taste of Scotland's finest export came foolishly and perilously close to being more than even his large frame was equipped to handle. It burned. All the way down. But not enough to sear his memory into oblivion.

He was never sure how she was so successful at finding him. There had been a call five years ago in Australia; one six years before that when he was sharing a flat with Harry — briefly, very briefly — in Camden. Beyond that, the last time had been when he was 16.

When he had received the message notifying him of his father's death, he realized now, his first thought had been, "She'll never ring me up again."

After all, there would be no point.

The late earl's son was no longer needed. Not as a pretext or a conduit or a source. His father's death marked the end of his usefulness to Amelia Sadler-Petts Moncreif. His mother.

His second nip at the bottle was more restrained and he leaned his head back and let the amber liquid slide down his throat, spreading its warmth along his nerve endings.

She'd inquired, perfectly in line with past performances, about his health. Inquired when she'd run him to ground – somehow – today. Inquired and sent his hard-won emotional equilibrium spiraling downward as her voice washed over him, thanks to A.G. Bell's miracle of communication.

He had given brief consideration to dropping the small button-encrusted tech link with the wider world in the toilet and flushing it away, but three pair of inquisitive eyes had been focused intently on him and he had recalled his parental responsibility to set a positive example just in time.

And so he had responded dutifully instead: "I'm healthy. Healthy and happy. Never healthier or happier, as a matter of fact."

She'd inquired about his finances.

And he's responded with perfect truth: "I'm wealthy. Wealthy and wanting for nothing. Never wealthier or less wanting, as a matter of fact."

She'd inquired about his work.

And he'd responded with assurance: "I'm busy. Busy and essential. Never busier or more essential, as a matter of fact."

She'd inquired about his wife.

And he'd had nothing to say. He could not – would not – share one iota of one moment of his life with Kate to satisfy the perfunctory curiosity of Mr. Moncreif's wife.

So there had been silence for a time. He had, in fact, thought she might have quietly severed the connection. But then her voice had chirped cheerily in his ear again.

"And your little boys. I can hardly believe I'm actually a grandmother."

He had considered several responses while he watched the sons he and Kate had created tumble over one another down the length of the upstairs landing in a giggle-laced game of their own invention.

"Actually, you know, I'm not sure you want to consider that grandmother-y thing," he had said with dangerous calm. "After all, the mum gig was a bit much for you, as I recall."

He would have killed for a cigarette at that point, but he had bitten the inside of his cheek instead and waited.

He'd been waiting for her for years. More than 30 now.

Waiting for her to come home again.

Waiting for her to explain why she had left.

Waiting for her to want him.

That it was a hopeless endeavor and a useless occupation was beyond evident; still, he couldn't give it up.

Her voice had severed a fresh wedge out of his new-found peace. "I saw your wedding picture, you know. Your bride looked very … small. Or perhaps it's you who are so large. You're very like your father, I've always thought."

Ah, there it was, he had conceded with something like admiration for her dead-on emotional aim.

He could count on the fingers of his two hands the times Amelia Moncreif had initiated contact with him since the day she'd summoned a taxi, climbed in, and left him standing in the driveway with tears streaming down his 6-year-old face. And in every instance, he had taken the fresh slap, the new smack she delivered with such stunning accuracy as, somehow, his due, for not being quite up to snuff as a son.

Because it was never her boy that the blue-eyed, golden-haired goddess longed to connect with. Oh no. It was always and forever the other green-eyed Crick with dark brown curls spilling over his forehead and a boyish smile lifting the corners of his mouth as she came into his arms. That was the one she angled for.

Their son was simply a means to an end.

And he had known that deep in his soul even before he could articulate the words to describe the situation.

They could not live with each other – his parents. But neither could they live entirely apart.

And so they appropriated a script that allowed them to meet on varying stages where Amelia would pretend to delight in the sight of her son and Rupert Crick, 15th Earl of Charlbury, would pretend to deign to allow the brief mother-son connection.

And when everyone had read sufficient of the lines to move the farce along, Piers would dutifully exit upstage toward the duck pond or the merry-go-round or the canal boats or whatever amusement the trysting place offered and leave the only two people who mattered in his world alone.

Alone and moving toward yet another climactic ending.

He laughed bitterly to himself now and took another sip from the bottle. Climax probably didn't do justice to describing what took place between his parents during those sporadic get-togethers. But whatever it was, it satisfied them both for months. Sometimes for years.

And in between, Amelia would call. It was, he supposed, her way of dealing with the tension when his father was in his less amiable periods and could not be persuaded to meet her. Or when her new role as Mrs. Moncreif made it difficult to slip back into her first casting call as Lady Charlbury.

Regardless of her reason, the roadmap was always the same.

And he always followed her along that familiar highway to hell.

It was akin to a nightmare that involved speeding on some wheeled conveyance down a hill that grew increasingly steep and increasingly bumpy until, at last, there was only one final huge obstruction to be cleared. And he would sail over that obstacle alone, time and again, to discover that, on the other side, there was nothing but a cold and empty void. Waiting to welcome him.

She still wanted to talk to him about his father. The earl had been dead and buried for five years. If she felt an overwhelming need to visit her true love once more, damn her, she'd have to stroll the cemetery paths through the churchyard alone, he'd thought. He wasn't about to serve as her lowly page again.

Another bitter thought had emerged while he held the phone to his ear. Had the pair of them ever got it on in a graveyard? It would be like her, he had decided uncharitably as he waited for her to suggest such an outing.

She had laughed instead. "I scarcely recognized you in your wedding finery, though, you naughty boy. I'm surprised your bride didn't leave you at the alter."

He thought, remembering the sound now, that there was something flat about her mirth, however.

"Had I known your preferences," she'd continued, "I might have asked your brother Simon to come round and help with your make-up for such an important occasion. He's head of the department at Fox, you know."

"No, I didn't know. And does Simon know he has a brother in need of his services?"

This time the silence had originated on Amelia's end of the phone. He had waited with interest.

Was that what this was all about? Had she decided it was time to introduce her first-born to his siblings? Had she made up her mind to tell her new family they had a blood relative she had never revealed before?

Because, as far as he knew, he was a secret. Amelia's major secret.

He knew about his siblings. As a 12-year old, he had once taken unwilling part in a bizarre prelude to his parents' eventual coupling by pretending to admire the photos Amelia displayed of three chubby, golden-haired, blue-eyed angels unequivocally stamped with her imprint as he never had been.

He knew their names – Stephen, Samuel and Simon. He knew their preferences. Their triumphs. Their sterling reputations.

She had been laying it all out for him for years in every call. It was her own unique way of severing the connection anew once she'd bled him dry of every detail about his father.

But they didn't know him at all.

This time when he brought the bottle to his lips, he kept it there, breaking off the stream into manageable swallows but never losing touch with the source.

He wondered, as though viewing the scene from afar, which would happen first: would the bottle go empty or would he lose his grip and spill into oblivion?

He was hoping for the latter as he considered her parting shot: "Stephen is up for a directorship in the company. He's moving to New York next month. And Samuel … dear boy, you would be so proud of your baby brother. He's quiet successful in his practice now. So if you ever felt you wanted to — well, you know — deal with your eccentricities, I'm sure I could get you a really good referral through his contacts. And he'd never have to know. Therapists are ruled by discretion, you see. It's like the priesthood. So there would be no worries there."

"Quite. I'll keep that in mind. If I ever want to deal with my eccentricities," he had said evenly.

And hung up the phone. And stretched out on the floor. And prayed his sons would come and climb over him and manage, in their childish romp, to pull his hair and stomp on his fingers and kick his knees.

Because he needed to focus on pain somewhere other than in his heart.

And now he sat in the coolness of the moonlight, alone.

He tilted the bottle high. Drained the last drop. Found himself still upright and still aching as he considered what good boys his brothers were. Boys good enough to hold on to their mother.

His fingers released their hold on his useless friend Johnny and drifted toward his chest. But even the familiar feel of the nylon and lace he had lifted from the confines of the cupboard and quietly donned earlier were not enough to make it right.

God help me, he thought.

Kate came through his door then.

Kate, who alternated, moment to moment, from being mad at him to mad for him. Kate, who had given him three sons and then proceeded to teach them he was both the world's greatest horse's arse and its grandest super hero. Kate, who could never keep secret her passion at him or her passion for him. Kate, who was reaching hungrily for him and climbing into his lap.

Kate, his Kate, who, having reclaimed her spot next to his heart, settled her arm firmly around his neck, tipped her head up and whispered, "You can't possibly get rid of me, you bloody great guzzling beast. I'm here to stay, my boy."

And he knew God had.

.


End file.
